


Honeydew

by storybycorey



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 14:03:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15026240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storybycorey/pseuds/storybycorey
Summary: Post Season 11 pregnancy ficHer breasts are fuller and her sex more swollen, her hands more greedy at night.  Hormones.  He doesn’t complain. He asks her, as she rides brilliantly and desperately atop him, “Were you like this… before?” They don’t talk about before much, but the thought of her then, lonely and needy—it does things to him.





	Honeydew

In the very beginning, his hand rests on her belly and he whispers in her ear, “A blueberry, Scully, our own little blueberry.”  She smiles, despite her fear.

Then, in the not-so-very beginning, “A grape, Scully, just an itty bitty grape.”  She smiles again, this time a bit less afraid.

A few weeks later, he takes her from behind, fingers on her clit and knees pressed into the mattress, murmuring, “A plum, can you believe it, Scully? A plum.”  He loses himself in the heat of her then and, understandably, forgets about produce for a while.  His cock against her pubic bone drives her mad, and she collapses against the sheets as she comes.   He forgets about his produce, and she forgets, for a moment, her fears.

He’s worked his way up to an avocado when her tummy begins to swell, and that night, on the old porch swing while the crickets play a tune, he runs his palm across her abdomen.  They laugh together at the tears in his eyes.  “I dreamt about this, back when…”  He doesn’t finish, but they both know the _back when_ he means.  She dreamt about it, too. The eaves of the porch creak in agony as they swing.

Tomato, then mango, then coconut.  Each week a new fruit or vegetable, each day a new ache or pain.  Her belly is smooth and round, a pale linea nigra dividing its halves.  He traces the line, kisses his way from bottom to top.  He rubs her arches and fetches her vitamins, makes up for nine long-ago months of lost time. 

She grins when he lies with his cheek to her skin, pressing kisses against a small foot or elbow.  When the moon is just right, she twines her fingers through his hair and urges him lower, murmuring his name as he tastes her. 

Her breasts are fuller and her sex more swollen, her hands more greedy at night.  Hormones.  He doesn’t complain. He asks her, as she rides brilliantly and desperately atop him, “Were you like this… before?” They don’t talk about _before_ much, but the thought of her then, lonely and needy—it does things to him.

“Yeah,” she breathes, hips rolling and brow damp, “Yeah, I was.” The undersides of her breasts bounce against her belly as she increases her pace, and when she reaches to pinch her own nipples, he loses it, the sight too breathtaking to resist.

Legs tangled afterwards, she strokes his cheek.  “I’d think of you and I’d touch myself.  I’d try not to cry.” 

He presses a kiss to her palm.  “I’m here this time.”

“A pineapple,” he whispers, a month later, standing behind her while she works at the washing machine, newly washed onesies piled up on top. His stubble grazes her neck while his arms wrap around her, one hand cupping a soft, full breast, the other rounding over her belly.  She doesn’t like the thought of a prickly, poky pineapple turning somersaults in her womb. 

“A honeydew,” she suggests softly instead, craning her neck back for a kiss and dragging his hand lower to press between her legs.  He hums against her jawbone, grinding his hips to her back.

She wears skirts these days, knit ones with foldover waists.  They bunch easily into his fists when he needs to get beneath.  She’s wet already and arches back against him when he touches her, loosening her knees to drop her weight into his hand.  He loves her like this, trusting him, wanting him, wet around his fingers and whimpering his name.  He braces his back against the wall in order to work her the way he knows she needs.  It’s harder now, with her belly—his balance is thrown off.   

“More,” she sighs, reaching back to grasp at his neck. He shoves his hand up her top to get at her nipples. 

She knows what she wants, and he’s happy to give it to her.  It’s the least he can do after what they’ve been through.  Too bad fucking in the laundry room was never a directive back in the days when teamwork reviews were at stake. 

His shoulders ache with holding them both up, but the way she says _fuck_ when he’s three knuckles deep is worth every tube of Bengay he’ll go through tonight.  He missed this the first time.  He won’t do that again.

She’s losing herself in the ebb and the flow of it, he can tell.  They’ve perfected this over the years, the grind of her hips and the thrust of his fingers.  “Do it, Scully,” he breathes against her temple, “Come for me.”  He flicks a finger across her nipple and a thumb across her clit.

“Oh my God,” she whimpers, gripping his forearm in her fists.  With a surge of her pelvis, she comes, clenching around his still thrusting fingers and falling even limper in his arms. 

He kisses her cheek, holding her up while she comes back to herself, body languid and cunt still twitching.  “That’s my girl,” he breathes finally, lowering them both to the floor.

She turns in his arms, lays her head on his chest.  The dryer above them dings.  The room is humid and needs to be painted.  She smiles.  She’s not afraid anymore. 

“I’m glad you’re here, Mulder,” she murmurs into his shirt.  “This little fruitbasket of ours is gonna need a good Daddy.”  He strokes his fingers through her hair.  He’s here this time.


End file.
